


And let the other stay, and hoard it

by Teland



Series: Three red words [10]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-07
Updated: 2007-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-30 00:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13938879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: "Christ, that suit's disturbing."





	And let the other stay, and hoard it

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgments: To Petra, Betty, and the Jack for audiencing, encouragement, hand-holding, and desperately needed grammar/comprehension help.

It feels less strange -- much less -- than it should to pull the   
suit on, which is just more proof than Jason actually needed   
that his life has gotten away from him again. 

He thinks -- 

He knows that if he were a different sort of person, he'd   
get hung up *hard* on the 'again,' have to step back, sit   
down, *brood* on it, and it's not that he thinks that that kind   
of thing is always a mistake -- it really isn't -- it's just that it   
*is* always a mistake when you already know all the   
conclusions that can be known. 

He was dead -- there's no getting rid of those memories --   
but now he isn't. 

He's the same person he was, he's not. 

Beyond that -- Jason doesn't even know the questions to   
ask. And if he spent too much time thinking about *that*,   
he'd wind up dead. 

Again. 

(Every time he thinks the words, he gets caught up hard   
between the memory of how it felt to have pieces of his   
ribs grinding together, and the way the sun kept getting   
darker even though he kept his eyes as wide as he could,   
and the memory of a dozen -- a thousand -- empty streets   
and dirty alleys, and the sense of himself of being older   
than he should be, and -- and he doesn't.) 

It's not getting him any closer to answers -- or even   
questions -- for any of *this*, and that's actually just fine   
by him. This -- 

This is him, slipping into Dick's latest version of the   
Nightwing suit. Because Dick is Dick (even though   
sometimes, now, he seems like he isn't), the suit is still   
*just* too-lightly-armored enough to be as too-small as it   
should be, as opposed to being too-small enough to make   
Jason worry about oxygen deprivation. 

It's short in the leg, it's tight in the shoulders. If someone   
shot him in the chest while he was twisting or turning, he'd   
die again, or at least spend a lot of time strapped to a   
hospital bed. 

Strapped to -- 

And see, that's worth a pause, even if it means he's just   
standing around barefoot in Dick's bedroom -- as opposed   
to moving out into the living room, moving further, moving   
to where the back-brain wordless (this isn't something   
*for* words) part of him needs to be, right now. 

A week ago, there was nothing in the basement of this   
building but a basement. He's sure of it. He'd had a few   
smokes down there. 

Now, there's a perfect little med-lab. No -- *six* days ago,   
there was suddenly a perfect little med-lab, complete with   
every little necessary toy Bruce has in his damned Cave,   
in -- 

He can't decide if it's worse or not that it's actually real   
fucking different. There are machines Jason's pretty sure   
Bruce wouldn't recognize right off the bat, and others he's   
pretty sure Talia wouldn't -- which pushes the lab right past   
'complete' and into 'wrong.' 

It doesn't matter that all the instructions and buttons and   
everything else is in English. There had been nothing, and   
then there had been *everything* -- and it's all about   
Flamebird's little (huge, alien) side project. 

It's possible -- *just* possible -- he's. Heh. Lagging a little.   
He really would've -- before taking that fateful fucking trip   
down into the basement -- thought that he'd notice if things   
had gotten serious enough that it was time to exchange   
alien technologies (and what *else*?), but apparently -- 

And, you know, maybe he's lagging even more than that.   
Maybe *Nightwing* isn't who he's supposed to be at all.   
Maybe Dick had already *tried* being Nightwing to the   
Flaming Freakboy, and -- 

The wrong clothes, the wrong -- 

No. He's already in the damned suit, he can't just -- he can't. 

The difference between alive-then and alive-now boils down   
to how, then, he was too wrapped up in Robin (Bruce) to   
do anything but what he did. He isn't, now, and there are   
things he wants which, if he plays it right, don't have to   
have anything to do with -- heh. Anyone who doesn't live in   
this house. 

He can worry about narrowing it down further *later*. 

Barefoot, the only sounds when he moves are the slick   
whisper of the Nightwing suit on itself and the probably   
not-really-real sense of his eyelashes scratching and moving   
against the lenses of the mask. His facial structure isn't   
really that different from Dick's until you get down to their   
jaw-lines, and really -- 

It's only when you get too deep (he already is) that this   
doesn't make sense, that this isn't just another part of the   
them that's Jay-and-Flamebird, Dick's (little) brothers   
(getting *along* and ain't that --) 

He's not -- 

It doesn't have to get too deep. 

Not even when Tim actually takes a step *back* when he   
sees Jason, and it's -- 

Well, it isn't what he wanted and it *is*. Jason's hasn't seen   
that body language since he was *feeling* it in the half-   
second before he'd gotten Tim spun around and the knife   
where he wanted it, since he'd only *been* watching. 

He swallows back the smile that wants to be on his face --   
he never could fake *all* of Dick's expressions -- and tilts   
his head, instead. Too far, too open -- 

"What -- Jesus, Jay." 

Perfect. And he's not actually close enough to make this   
*smooth* but, in the end, it's only a few extra steps to   
close the distance between them, a moment's   
*concentration* to keep him from tugging at the suit that's   
*just* that much tighter and less armored than his *own*   
new one -- 

He has his fingers on Tim's mouth -- one indigo, one slightly   
*less* indigo -- only visible at times when the light is   
brighter and more trustworthy than the neon flicker Tim's   
bedroom picks up from a couple of blocks away. 

They both know. 

Tim's expression is -- heh. Right and wrong. Perfectly   
incredulous, perfectly *Flamebird*, only that's -- 

Well, it's what he wants to *know*. One of the things,   
anyway -- just where does Tim draw the *line*? 

When Jason moves in to rest his mouth against Tim's ear --   
too close for a whisper, close *enough* for Dick -- Tim   
shifts *enough* that he's got two fingers of his own *right*   
over one of the places where the weak chest armor is weak   
*and* too small. 

The strike would be crippling. 

If he were in different clothes, this would be where he   
*fucks* with Tim a little, with Flamebird for continuing to   
let Dick dress himself, with himself for needing it this way -- 

He's *not* in different clothes, and it -- 

He knows it's really kind of *impressively* stupid to think   
that all it will take is a change of clothes to *keep* it from   
being like that, but -- well. They *all* used to live with   
Bruce. Sometimes you kinda have to set a *mood*. 

So, the best thing to do right now is unlearn almost   
everything he'd ever taught himself about sounding   
dangerous, take a deep breath, and -- "I just wanna know   
where the *lines* are --" 

"*Jay* --" 

"-- little brother." 

Tim would've been better off going for the strike he'd set up   
instead of trying to shove Jason back enough to go for a   
different one. The fact that he didn't is filed neatly away   
under 'answers to be figured out later,' by the time Jason   
firms up his body-pin -- 

By the time he's kissing. 

For a second, it's so much like Bruce he can't keep from   
tightening his grip on Tim's shoulders through the flame-on-   
flame-on-*queer* colors of the suit, but it's another kind of   
answer that *that* makes it nothing like Bruce at all. 

Tim shoves at him with his *face* to get enough room to   
open his mouth, to curl the tip of his tongue against the   
underside of Jay's own and *urge*. And then -- 

(Bruce always used to just take it when Jason made the   
first move.) 

And then there's the second (more, so much) that makes up   
for all the rest, because the last time Jason had a kiss like   
this it didn't *feel* like Bruce, or Batman, or anything he'd   
ever even thought he'd known. Just -- 

Just a cheap motel, a fake mustache tickling his face, and   
the way he couldn't -- quite -- manage to tell himself that   
his eyes were closed to avoid that fucking *jacket*, because   
Bruce -- he knows this now -- couldn't figure out any other   
way to touch him, anymore. 

Tim's *leg* is locked around his own (trip, take-down,   
*strike*), and it's his own fault that he's fucked-up, and it's   
his own fault that he's laughing against Tim's mouth -- 

And there are times Tim *sleeps* in his boots, which is only   
important right this second because the back-kick numbed   
the fuck out of Jason's left Achilles tendon and most of the   
foot and the *calf*, and it's only control that lets him   
stumble back instead of fall. 

"You -- if you wanted a fight, Jason, you could've just   
*asked* for it." 

"More than I already am?" No one -- absolutely no one --   
could make 'Jay' into as much of a -- fucking *code* name   
as Tim has. And what he does with 'Jason' -- 

What he does with Jason is exactly what he wants to -- and   
never mind the way Tim's already panting, and the uneasy   
*twitch* in his left hand. He makes Jason lose the   
goddamned *thread*. Which -- well, when you get right   
down to it? No. 

"Tim," he says, in a voice he hasn't used with... he hadn't   
used it with either of them, really. There was just never   
anything like the -- anything. 

The cold little look on Tim's face would say he was *right*   
not to -- except for how it also kind of says the opposite. He   
can work with suspicion, even though he doesn't really want   
them to just beat the shit out of each other until they're too   
hard not to fuck. 

"Tim," he says again, and as distractions from the fact that   
he's moving *in* again go, it's weak, but it's not exactly   
wrong to let Tim catch his left wrist, let him focus on that, or   
the feel, or the efficiency of the *grip* -- whatever -- for   
long enough for him to catch *Tim's* left wrist. 

It's a guaranteed loss for Tim -- his hands are strong, but   
not quite big enough, and there are limits to what Tim can   
do with his hands occupied *and* separated. Jason frowns.   
It's not what -- 

He lets Tim's wrist go and looks him in the eye -- 

"What --" 

\-- and cups Tim's ribs, instead. Or -- it's the armoring that's   
designed to *feel* just like ribs, to call *attention* to a   
vulnerability which isn't there, and -- yeah. Like this, there   
are no guarantees at all. 

"A new ready position, Jay?" 

The smile on his own face now -- isn't right. It's not Dick,   
but maybe it's close enough to not-Jay to work. "One of the   
first things you said to me was that I didn't know who you   
were." 

There's a freakish sort of -- even-ness that pulls over Tim's   
face when he's raising an eyebrow with his mask on. The   
colors start to look right, even though with the lenses up   
they should look more wrong than ever. 

"God, I -- that fucking *suit*. It'd look better on *me*." 

"You couldn't pull it off on your best day -- Jason." 

Right and wrong and -- he'd never done this with Bruce. Not   
really. At first, Bruce always seemed to know when his head   
was fucked around, and then he'd be right there, making it   
just a little worse or better or -- whatever he was thinking.   
And then Bruce stopped being able to tell, or stopped   
being -- 

He doesn't know, and it doesn't really matter beyond the   
fact that this is probably the first time Jason's ever kissed   
somebody to distract himself from his *own* brain. 

Which seems a lot more fucked-up than it probably   
should... but it's enough to just -- Tim kissing him *back*,   
*again*, is another answer for the pile, and enough to   
narrow things down a little. Enough. 

If you're close enough to Flamebird for a touch, you might   
be close enough to slide around, feel the unnatural   
perfection of the armor's 'ribs', trace it to the back-plating   
and, from there, down to waist, hips -- 

This time, it goes on long enough that he starts being able   
to distinguish the individual flickers of neon through his   
eyelids, time them against the breaths Tim is taking -- quick   
and quiet -- through his nose, to the heartbeat that *might*   
not be his own (or wishful thinking) when he drags Tim a   
*little* closer -- 

And he loses it a little when -- it isn't the first time Tim's   
bitten his mouth. It's just the first time that it feels like it   
was something he'd thought about, maybe even seriously   
enough to be a little unsure if it was the right move. 

It's a different kind of being even, just like it is to *tug* Tim   
even harder against him instead of yanking, to pull back   
against the teeth pressed into his lip until Tim lets go   
without -- heh. "Is this the first time we've done this without   
either of us bleeding at this point?" 

"Is this --" Tim's teeth don't really *click* together when he   
cuts himself off. It just feels like it. 

"What?" 

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Jason -- it's entirely possible I was   
drugged, at some point -- but I wasn't aware we'd spent   
much time making *out*." 

Heh. Well. "Bored?" 

"Imminently, I'm sure," Tim says, and that's -- maybe he's   
getting a little too *good* at distracting himself, because it   
takes looking at Tim's *eyes* to remember what he was   
*doing* with this. What he's -- trying. 

"Yeah, I -- heh. About that," Jason says, and puts a little   
pressure on the small of Tim's back. There's only enough   
armor there to protect from *bad* shots and clumsy   
opponents, because any more would fuck Tim's   
maneuverability. Neither he nor Dick bother with it, at all,   
and the part of Jason's mind which wants to point out that,   
for Tim, it's probably just one more fucking *tease* -- 

"Sexual ennui?" 

\-- is probably right. "Not exactly," and the thing is, *he'll*   
never pull off making the roll of his hips a tease as opposed   
to just the next *step*. But -- "You don't pull this off, either,   
you know." 

"'This?'" 

"Unless you're *going* for Drag Queen Wonder --" 

"The mask doesn't do a *thing* for my eye-shadow, Jason." 

Flat, cold, and *asking* for -- what? "You're not half as --   
*flaming* as you want to play it --" 

"Is this where you introduce me to the miraculous works of   
the ex-gay movement? How *has* it been working for   
you --" 

The thing is -- it wasn't a kiss. Not really. Not what Tim was   
*asking* for, *pushing* for, but it's apparently close   
enough -- no. 

Tim isn't kissing like he wants a fight, and he isn't just   
*taking* this. He kisses exactly like someone who's had   
most of his sexual experience, full stop, with *one* person   
whose name wasn't Jason. Whether or not that's   
improvement -- 

Tim's still got one of his wrists -- squeezing hard enough to   
hurt if Dick's gauntlets weren't exactly as well-made as they   
should be -- but it's easy *enough* to get his other hand on   
Tim's cheek, to get that much closer, until he has to bend a   
little too much for comfort, has to tilt Tim's face up -- 

It's not actually a surprise that the kiss gets -- different.   
Gets -- 

He isn't sure, and it's fucking great, and whether or not it   
should make any sense -- Superman's fucking *taller* than   
he is, and tilting Tim's face up like this shouldn't *make*   
the kiss feel like it's (for once) all *his* -- 

And there's not enough of it before Tim's shoving him back   
again -- 

"Fuck, you -- take that *off*." 

And -- hunh. The thing is, he was mostly thinking (trying   
not to) about motherfucking *Kal-El*, but. They all close   
their doors a lot, and it's not like -- 

Well, maybe he *was* right to steal this uniform. Jason   
shakes his head, and he's willing to bet that the way he   
gets his pinky bent back when he makes a grab for Tim's   
free hand again is at least mostly reflexive. 

It -- doesn't matter as much as getting it, and dragging   
Tim's knuckles -- he's not getting the palm -- over the flat,   
mostly-impossible-to-see plane of the bird on his chest. 

"It's not like you didn't put it on mine, but --" 

"I was wondering when you'd notice --" 

"Heh. Yeah, you're exactly as much of a fucker as you want   
to be." His own new uniform is more urban camo than   
anything else in terms of colors, greys and browns, and he   
should probably -- probably -- be grateful that the bird   
picked out in tiny stitches and blobs of camouflage across   
his back and shoulder blades isn't a motherfucking   
*sparrow*, or maybe a particularly ugly pigeon. 

It's not. It's just the same as the one on Tim's uniform, and,   
of fucking course, on *Dick's*. His, tonight. 

"I'm -- if you want it, why don't you *take* it?" 

And there's enough armor on his chest that it's not --   
quite -- painful to be digging Tim's knuckles against it like   
this, but it's still hard not to gasp (relief, *want*) when Tim   
stops pushing and flattens his palm. "Jason. I --" 

"Yeah. Like *that* --" 

"You've got some startlingly -- *queer* -- ways of trying to   
convince people they aren't *gay* --" 

"And you know that's not *it*," and the twist would be   
enough to knock Tim's hand free -- if he wasn't still holding   
on to Tim's wrist and if Tim wanted to be knocked away. "I   
just want --" 

"Should I call you 'Dick?' Did you want to be my big brother,   
little wing? Or did you just --" 

The kiss is annoyingly standard, teeth and fucking jawbone-   
to-jawbone, and -- And then it isn't standard, because the   
way Tim groans when Jason *shoves* his tongue in, when   
he presses them close enough that the armoring over Tim's   
trapped elbow has to be cutting a little, when Jason flexes   
the wrist *Tim* still has until he lets go, when Jason   
shoves his hands into -- 

Tim's hair is too short to make it work, and he actually   
winds up punching the damned window jamb behind him,   
but. 

It's not like he doesn't know how much Tim gets *off* on   
the feel of Jason's short nails on his scalp, and it's not like -- 

It's not like anything when Tim groans again, because this is   
one of those things Jason doesn't get to have, and this is --   
exactly what he wants. 

Even the shove, because -- 

"Fucking take it *off* --" 

"I'm right here. It's *okay* --" 

"Dammit -- *fuck* --" 

It's more of a spar than a mutual decision to get Tim's arms   
free enough that he can wrap them around Jason's neck,   
but the ends *do*, in fact, justify the means, and he   
fucking -- 

He loves this. He *loves* it. 

He loves knowing that the scrape of his nails like *this* is   
more of a tickle than anything else, that if they keep kissing   
like this their mouths will only be bruised for a *little* while   
tomorrow morning, that there's no reason *not* to put his   
whole body into this, to hold Tim tight enough that he has   
to feel every move he makes and *can't* brace himself   
against the wall -- 

He knows, better than he knows anything else about this   
particular version of his life, that if he were some kind of   
psychic, he could reach right in and *see* the dream or   
fantasy or whatever of Tim doing this in the damned *sky*   
with Dick, that Dick would have one arm on the jumpline --   
Jason plants one hand on the *wall* -- and the other   
wrapped so tight around his little brother that it was nothing   
but safe, nothing but perfect. 

"J -- *please* --" 

"Anything. Anything you want --" 

And it's okay if he sounds like Bruce, because Dick had to   
get it from somewhere, right? Wasn't that the little lesson   
Bruce had decided they all needed to learn? It doesn't   
really matter *what* Dick or Tim think, or want to think.   
They're all just that fucking -- bent. Heh. 

And it's even -- 

Right about now, he *knows*, almost any laugh he lets out   
will feel good, feel *right*, because this is the real Tim in   
his arms, right now. 

The one who doesn't -- *can't* -- make himself hide the   
muscular strength in his body, not under freakily   
unnecessary armor, and not under all the goddamned   
emotional warfare Flamebird's made of. 

This isn't a fight, anymore, and they both know it. 

Brothers -- shouldn't fight. And Tim always follows the rules. 

Right now, this boils down to letting Jason walk him back   
to his own -- neat, of course -- bed, holding on tight enough   
that they don't fall so much as bend and shift themselves   
*down*. 

And -- 

He's reasonably sure that it's not what Tim *wants*, but it   
*feels* right to roll them over until Tim is straddling him, to   
smile into the kiss until Tim's shuddering -- 

"You're -- so fucking *good*, Tim --" 

And it *is* just another kind of pushing, another kind of   
*asking* for it, but the growling bite doesn't really go   
anywhere except into another kiss, Tim's quick tongue and   
hungry *mouth*, and there's a part of Jason which wants   
to point out, to Tim, that he can totally *admit* that he   
wouldn't be able to *fuck* with Tim so much if there wasn't   
so much truth in the lie Tim keeps telling, that they don't   
*need* the lie, but that would be the closest thing he could   
manage to an apology, and -- 

He doesn't feel like apologizing. Not for anything when Tim   
starts rocking against him, when their suits -- 

God, if Dick *has* done this, does the sound drive him nuts?   
(He knows Dick hasn't. This -- everything would be   
*different* --) There's something fucking *weird* about   
them all wearing the same basic materials, on top of the   
other-other-*other* kind of gay they're all working. The   
whisper turns into an artificial little scream when they're   
rubbing together just enough, and it's loud enough that it   
almost drowns out the rhythmic little grunts they're both   
pushing out of Tim with every thrust. That's -- 

It's a scary kind of progress to have reached the point where   
Tim doesn't try to hurt him when he lets go enough to make   
an obvious reach for the catches of Tim's suit, but *does*   
catch his wrists again -- it's *their* scary kind of progress. 

"Let me?" 

"Why should I? Nightwing." 

"I --" 

It's not a surprise that Tim *can* pull away when he's hard   
enough to be *noticeable* even through both their jocks,   
but it is a surprise that he *would*. 

"Fuck, I haven't had to hold you down since the *first* time.   
Since halfway *through* the first time," he says, and sits   
up, and reaches -- and Tim's up and out of range. "*Jesus*,   
Flamer --" 

"Thought I wasn't." 

And, see, that was *almost* right, for very specific, Jason-   
asked-for-it, Flamebird values of 'right.' But there's a   
difference between deadpan and -- that. "Okay. Okay, first   
off, was that or was that not -- *good*?" 

It's a laugh more because Jason knows what they look like   
on Tim than because of sound or feel. 

"Look, I just want --" 

"What. Do you want, Jason?" 

Right about now, what he *wants* is a blowjob, followed by   
an explanation of why *now*, why *this* -- Tim with his   
arms crossed and head down -- feels like the realest thing   
he's ever seen, even though it makes him think of the first   
five or six times he'd tried to explain to Talia why he had to   
go back alone, feels like *just* that variety of "I can't" and   
also "I have to do it even though I'm gonna fuck it up."   
It's -- 

It would actually look better if Tim had the damned *cape*   
on. Two steps forward, two *miles* back, and -- fuck. 

"You want a list outta me?" 

"Do you have one." 

There's no real percentage -- to anything -- in punching   
Tim's mattress, but he does it, anyway. "Aren't -- fuck.   
Aren't we supposed to work *better* than this? Isn't that   
the point?" 

"Is *that* what you want?" 

The thing is -- it is. It's just not all of it. "Do you really   
think -- look, a little rough is fine by me, but I'm starting to   
get fucking weirded out by the fact that we can't fuck   
without punching each other in the face." 

"If I admit that I have... a few of the same concerns, can   
we -- God," Tim says, and scrubs a hand back over his   
scalp. It makes him look -- bizarrely and horribly -- like the   
clone-meta thing currently calling itself Redbird back in   
Gotham. 

The clone-meta thing that *had* been Tim's best fucking   
friend in the world, currently hanging with the chick who   
*had* been Tim's girlfriend. Jason keeps his wince as   
internal as he can. 

"I -- don't even know what you want from me, Jason." 

And then doesn't, because -- "Look, Dick's not here   
tonight --" 

"Not even in my bed...?" The smile is weak and small and   
*cold*, but it's there. 

"Not -- even that." Apparently, no matter how much Tim   
*wants* -- "We've been doing a pretty great job of being   
all hardcore for Dick, but -- fuck, sometimes *I* miss   
Bruce. And I probably know him better than either of you.   
Don't I?" 

The smile gets a little -- better. "Somehow, it's something I   
failed to envy about you. It was... a lot easier. When I didn't   
know him as well as I do." 

"Biblically, even." Jason snorts and sits up all the way,   
crossing his legs tailor-style. "I'm pretty sure Dick's still   
banging his head against the wall about that, a little." 

"It's -- amusing that you think I've stopped." 

"You make it easy," he says, and there's a part of him -- the   
part which can't decide whether it misses Talia or just   
wants to *be* her a little, which wants Jason to know he's   
an asshole, and *weak*, besides, but, when you got right   
down to it -- 

If the only thing they were *about*, here, was getting the   
fuck away from Bruce, pretending that was even   
*possible* -- she'd fit *right* in. And she'd be wrong about   
this, too, because Tim is still right *here*, even if he's   
trying to be a silent statue of himself. 

Eventually, Tim sighs and spreads his hands, and it --   
finally -- clicks. What's *wrong* with the Flamebird suit. It's   
designed to look like Tim's own naked body, except with   
*fire* in the place of all the skin and muscle and fake   
bone -- those *ribs* -- in the place of the real, and an   
armored jock in the place of his *dick*. 

"Christ, that suit's disturbing." 

"Moreso with every chance to see it?" 

Jason snorts again. "Well, *yeah* --" 

"Good. When I was designing it... there's something to be   
said for spreading fear. I -- Kal-El enjoys the -- optical   
illusions/realities. He finds it all --" The switch into   
Kryptonian isn't exactly surprising, but -- 

It's never going to stop being disturbing. "English, freak --" 

"The quote -- 'there is an obscenity, but, perhaps, only one   
which is chosen.'" 

"Uh." 

"I had a reason for not translating, Jason," Tim says, turning   
away and crossing his arms again. 

"But you were just as obvious about *saying* it as you're   
being right now. Just --" Just as obvious as the suit, if you   
looked at it the right way. Or even the wrong way. *Only*   
fucking Tim would decide to intimidate people with -- a fiery   
*impression* of vulnerability. Naked to hide all the --   
naked. 

Jason shakes his head and -- it feels like giving up to get   
out of Tim's bed, but it also just feels like the kind of   
gambling he really can't get tired of. Especially when Tim   
turns to watch him from over his own shoulder. 

When Jason raises a hand, Tim raises an eyebrow. And   
doesn't lower it until Jason uses the hand to cup Tim's   
shoulder through the suit. "Mister fucking Scrawnybody." 

"I'd think you be somewhat less invested in getting me   
naked." 

"Maybe I'm getting a kink for rub-off related bruises," he   
says, and -- he doesn't really have to. It's been months, and   
he's still seen Tim naked more often than he's seen him in   
clothes that *weren't* this suit. Still, it's a fucked-up kind of   
reassuring to find all the places that are armored. All the...   
"So how much is your suit's extra armoring for protection   
and how much is for pretending you're even bonier than   
you are?" He already knows. 

"I was... surprised by the utility of the elbow and shoulder   
armor." 

Enough of an answer, and a confirmation, too. "Uh, huh.   
And how much better would this have gone if I hadn't   
bothered with Dick's uniform? How much worse?" 

"Jason --" 

The squeeze cuts Tim off. Tim lets it cut him off. One of   
those. "I wanted this. I want it." 

"You want to know where the lines are --" 

"*Yes* --" 

"That isn't -- quite -- the same thing. As this." 

It isn't. It -- really isn't. Jason leans in, but not -- too close.   
This time. "And if I want this, too?" 

"Don't you think you should have... a better idea?" 

"Probably," Jason says, and catches Tim's earlobe between   
his teeth. 

"Ah -- a return to familiar... protocols?" 

He lets go with a lick. "Maybe. Feel like giving me another   
cracked rib?" 

"Quite often. Feel like loosening my molars?" 

"Maybe with my *dick* --" 

Tim has no problem grabbing him by the hair, and Jason   
has *known* this, but there's a difference between knowing   
it and feeling it *this* time, with Tim yanking him down   
over his own damned shoulder into a kiss which -- 

It's gotta be at least as uncomfortable for him as it is for   
Jason, and that's enough an excuse to get his hands, his   
*fingers* on Tim's throat, on the scar that's only his if and   
when Tim decides to let it be -- once he can tug down the   
suit enough -- 

"Jay -- Jason, *fuck* --" 

Too fast, too heavy, too fucking *electric*, but he isn't   
actually capable of complaining about Tim *shoving* his   
ass back against Jason's crotch and grabbing Jason by the   
hip with the hand that isn't *yanking* on his hair. 

And -- yeah. He can make the kiss deeper, *and* he can   
use his brain enough to figure out that the kiss didn't   
*really* have a damned thing to do with it. He tightens the   
fingers he has on Tim's throat -- 

And Tim shouts into his mouth *and* pulls away. 

"Fucking *Christ*, man --" And nothing cuts him off but his   
own teeth, because -- 

As much time as he's spent with a forearm across Tim's neck   
with Tim's back (or front) to one wall or another, it's actually   
pretty fucking hard to *bruise* someone that way -- if   
you're doing it right. 

Fingers, on the other hand... 

Tim's coughing and rubbing his throat and, "Sorry. I. It   
would've helped to let you know about the -- sore spots." 

He's gotten pretty used to knowing where they are. And,   
well, causing them. "Is that -- why you're always wearing   
that thing?" He knows it isn't. 

"Actually, a lot of it has to do with how cold you and Dick   
prefer it in here," Tim says, and the smile on his face is   
completely normal, completely fucking calm. And then he   
cracks open the top and peels it off. "And with the fact   
that --" He drops the top on the floor and runs a hand down   
the center of his chest, following heat-flush. "It took me a   
long time to get used to the Robin suit," he says, more to   
the Flamebird top on the floor than anything else. "I was   
hoping to -- speed the process, somewhat." 

The yellowing bruises over Tim's ribs are Jason's, as are the   
still kind of bluish ones over Tim's kidneys. 

There are only *two* bruises (small, finger-sized, less a   
choke than a deliberate kind of strangling -- no oxygen to   
Tim's *brain*) on Tim's throat, but... Jason's also had   
months to get used to Tim coming home with nothing of the   
kind. 

"So -- I'm guessing those are more about kink than anything   
else," he says, and can't quite make himself point. 

"We'd have a larger supply of Kryptonite if it were   
otherwise -- you're actually uncomfortable, aren't you?" Just   
enough Flamebird in Tim's voice to make Jason almost   
*need* to start something -- moreso -- but. 

*Shit*. "It's one thing to know you're fucking Superman   
and another thing to know *how*." 

"Did you think Kal-El left these with his *penis*?" 

"I -- would you let me just call him Superman? Is that too   
much to ask?" 

Tim's silent for a long moment that's not really Flamebird or   
anyone else Jason knows, or even thinks he might know.   
Part of him's filing it away, but most of him is just feeling it.   
And it's -- still too much. Shit. 

"Look --" 

"It would really make it -- it would make it better for you?" 

"I -- *yes*!" 

And -- really, it's not his fault if he can't figure out whether   
it's more disturbing to watch Tim *thinking* at him like --   
like something had been *answered* (he's got his own files)   
while Jason wasn't paying attention to anything but Tim's   
throat, or to watch him *touching* those bruises, watch his   
eyes start to close, a little -- 

It's *not* Flamebird, and it should be easier to call it   
*good* -- "Tim --" 

"I -- you really think it would be *less* disturbing if I were   
fucking *Superman*? It's not that I don't believe you, but   
wouldn't that be like fucking Smokey the Bear or something?" 

This is probably the worst possible time to squeeze his eyes   
shut and act like he's trying to wave Tim away along with   
all the bad thoughts -- 

"I'm pretty sure even *Dick* would question that logic,   
Jason." 

Dick uses 'Superman' like it's a real *name*. "Shit, I   
*know*, but you're making my goddamned head hurt." 

And the sound is pretty much unidentifiable, breath and a   
cracked little fraction of a note, and it's enough to make   
Jason look -- 

And it's enough to see the last half of the smile disappear --   
like the rest of the laugh. 

"I guess I should apologize," Tim says, and... waits. 

"You -- come back. To bed." 

"I," 

Whatever it is sounds better -- feels, tastes -- as a kiss, even   
though Tim's got his hands *between* them this time. It's --   
if Jason were to push forward quick and hard enough, he'd   
break at least one of Tim's fingers in this position,   
immobilize, shock -- 

He doesn't care. 

He doesn't *want* to care, and Tim works the catches on   
this suit just like the person Jason was trying to *reach* --   
the one who's spent way too much time thinking about   
just (almost) this. 

Just -- *dammit*. "Tim, we can *do* this, anything, any   
way --" 

"We *can't*." 

And arguing isn't fighting, but it also isn't *this*, different   
and -- fucking *new*. So -- fine. They can't. "Then tell me   
it's good." 

"Jason --" 

"Fucking -- fucking *say* it." 

What he *says* is some fucked-up thing in Kryptonian, but   
he smiles when he hits the bed with a bounce, so maybe   
they don't have to go *all* the way back to fucking square   
one. 

"Say it," Jason says, and pulls off the top of the Nightwing   
suit, and doesn't scratch all the places where it was too   
fucking tight, and doesn't grab his own dick thinking about   
Tim's teeth -- "fucking *seriously* --" 

"Seriously -- seriously good," Tim says, and his mouth stays   
open after the last word, his mouth -- 

"Get naked for me?" 

His mouth drops open a little wider on a gasp, and stays   
*that* way. 

"Tim, I --" 

"I -- Jason. You --" 

"Do you want me to beg?" 

The sound Tim makes is kind of terrible, low and growling   
and *fucked* -- and he's scratching at his own belt like he   
doesn't remember how his fingers work, and the Nightwing   
tights feel stupider coming off than they did going on, and   
there's something just fucking *right* about being naked   
except for his jock on Tim's bed, something -- 

"Just -- yes, Jason, your hands, help me --" 

"I've got you --" 

"Oh --" The laugh this time *is* a laugh, but it's crazy and   
high, shuddering, "fuck, *don't* --" 

"Jesus, sorry --" He's an *idiot* -- 

"Not that either --" 

And it's easier to just kiss than to try to track the   
movements of Tim's hands with his own, and it's better to   
shove one of his hands *in* under the tights once Tim   
gives him a little *room*, humming into his mouth, licking   
Jason's *teeth*, but -- 

"Gonna freak my shit out if I touch your neck?" 

"No -- no fucking *promises*, Jason, just --" 

Getting Tim down on his back makes him think about too   
fast, makes him think about power and the bruises that   
just -- disappear between his teeth. One, two, and Tim   
jack-knifes beneath him, yanks his hair, bites his chin -- 

"Don't -- don't stop --" 

And that's exactly as much he can take, as much as he can   
handle -- scratch at Tim's scalp, bite his kinky little *throat*,   
catch him through the jock *under* the armored jock, warm   
and humid, twitching like a tease behind the fabric -- 

"Jason -- *you* --" 

"*Me*," he says, and has just enough time to wonder how   
much of an asshole he can *sound* like before Tim's   
*thrusting* against his fist hard, one-two-three -- 

"*Jason* --" 

"I -- yeah, do it, do it, slow next time --" 

And Tim *looks* at him, wild and scared and fucking   
*young*, fucking *Robin* -- *no* -- 

He kisses with his eyes open until Tim closes his and comes,   
just like that. Pressed hard against Jason's palm, breathless   
against his mouth, and slow was a total lie. He's got just   
about enough smooth to get his own jock off, and that's --   
it. Anything and everything he could do would be exactly   
what he'd *keep* doing until he came. He knows it, he   
*feels* it -- "Tim, I -- please --" 

Another one of those open-mouthed *gasps*, and one day   
Tim's gonna come back here looking like the aftermath of   
gang-sodomy, and Jason's not gonna be able to *blame*   
the damned alien, and none of that comes out better than   
a groan, which means some god somewhere still loves him. 

And wants him to *know* it, because the kiss isn't any   
softer, but Tim's *mouth* is, all the tension shot out of his   
dick, or maybe transported into Jason's own. Tim's got his   
dick in two hands, killing him with the knuckle-y overlap,   
fucking -- 

"Fucking killing me, get me off, I need --" 

Tim bites Jason's lip and *does* draw blood, but it's not   
personal -- 

Or maybe it is. Tim's hands are just right, bony and clever   
and hard -- smooth wherever the tiny little burns of his   
goddamned lifestyle -- "You don't have to be so goddamned   
*literal*," he hears himself say, and Tim's face -- 

So *confused*, and laughing is the best bad idea in the   
*world*, because the shocks of it jerk the come right out of   
him, Tim's squeezing and pulling and Jason's too -- 

If he could speak, he'd tell Tim not to stop too soon, not to   
go *easy*, but all he can do is shake his head, and maybe   
not actually getting hurt is better. 

When he's more like together again, he's also resting his   
forehead against Tim's shoulder and panting. Tim's hands   
are still *on* him, but loose. There're too many horribly   
efficient things they could *do* to each other from here to   
count. 

"Never -- never take a vacation with the League of   
Assassins," Jason says, and drags his forehead over bone   
and skin and muscle and more bone. And the rest of Tim's   
face. 

"Noted." 

"Seriously, not even for pointers. Fuck your shit right up.   
More." 

"I -- are you thinking about disemboweling me with your   
pinky, right now, Jason?" 

Mostly -- mostly Tim's hands are almost *cradling* him, and   
the part of him which should be laughing its metaphorical   
ass off right now is buzzed and humming, wanting -- push,   
touch, more -- 

Jason kisses Tim, and wonders which of them is more   
fucked up for just falling *into* it, and decides to vote for   
Tim. 

"Mostly -- other way around," Jason says, and licks Tim's   
tongue. "I -- I love the way you feel." 

"From descriptions… this would make you a masochist, you   
realize?" 

"And a pervert, and -- everything else," Jason says, and   
bites Tim on the cheekbone, and the earlobe, and -- "Fuck   
it." 

He can tell, right away -- he's smart like that -- that it's   
gonna take a lot of investigation to figure out whether Tim   
prefers to be bitten on the sweet spots on his throat or   
sucked on. 

Licked -- 

"J--Jason --" 

"It's gotta be freakier how much control he *has* --" 

"I thought you -- you liked the idea of me fucking Superman   
*more* --" 

"Only you can prevent my head exploding, man. Only you." 

"I'm..." Tim's smile is only strange because it isn't -- he   
looks just as blissed and vague as he should, as the kid   
Jason never actually *got* to know should, and he only   
looks a little more focused in the second before he says,   
"let me suck you." 

Which -- yes. Pretty much always *yes*, and Tim's head   
isn't in his lap when Dick walks in, but it is by the time he   
walks out with his uniform. 

"Don't talk," Tim breathes against Jason's thigh. "Don't --"   
And then Tim's licking his *balls*, and it's easier to follow   
orders. 

Just one of those things. 

Mean, teasing, scratchy little teeth, hot breath that's too wet   
to have anything to do with -- with fucking *fire*, and the   
grip Tim has on his *dick* is just firm enough to get it up,   
out of the way -- 

"Come on -- come on, come on, I --" 

"Slow," Tim says, and he actually *sounds* convinced, but   
the shove that lands Jason on his back doesn't have a   
damned thing to *do* with slow. 

"Yeah, I -- oh, *fuck* yeah, fucking --" 

He fucking *loves* getting his balls sucked, especially when   
it's a guy, and especially because he'll never forget the   
sweet-metal-bell sound of Talia laughing when he'd *said*   
that, and the way she picked to make herself *stop*   
laughing. 

Tim doesn't have nearly enough hair for Jason to hold on to,   
but the moans every time he tries are just perfect, just -- 

And it's not that he wants to be rock hard and desperate   
*too* fast, but there's something about having one palm   
flat to Tim's sweaty, prickly scalp and the other wrapped   
around his own dick. Better -- 

It's even better when Tim looks up, when his eyes almost   
*cross* because he's staring that hard -- heh. 

"Don't tell me you never watched me do *this*." 

"I," Tim says, licks and blows a breath over his sac, makes   
Jason fucking *twitch* -- 

"*Jesus*, you're good --" 

"I don't, actually, have X-ray vision, Jason," Tim says -- *to*   
Jason's dick, or maybe just to his hand. "I want…" 

"Tell me. Show me. Anything -- you know I'm game --" 

And it's fucked-up as all hell, but the only thing *other*   
than this moment that Jason can think about, the only thing   
other than the sweaty clumps of Tim's eyelashes on his   
own lean cheeks -- 

He'd had a cat -- or fed one, anyway -- back when his not-   
Mom had been alive and still up to cooking sometimes -- 

He'd had a *cat*, and it would sometimes kiss the back of   
Jason's hand *just* like Tim's kissing Jason's *dick* -- all   
hard-press of cheek to skin and *stroke*, and -- 

"Oh yeah, fucking *teach* me how to make you purr," he   
says, and it makes Tim shudder, just once, and -- his   
face. 

Flamebird doesn't *blush*, and it feels like he's breaking   
something open, here. Something huge and terrifying --   
exactly what he'd *wanted* -- 

"Or -- Tim. *Tim* --" 

"Jason -- you --" 

And whatever it is -- he can't tell, and he can't guess.   
There's nothing like the feeling of Tim going down on him,   
nothing like that first breathless rush when he can't tell   
whether Tim's swallowing him or if he's just being   
swallowed *up* -- fucked and fucking, and Jason still has   
enough brain left in his head to sit up, to just -- 

Just fucking hold Tim's head in his hands and between his   
thighs, and the position won't let him thrust too much, but   
he doesn't *want* to. He just -- 

"You're my *brother*," he says, and now he knows he   
sounds like an idiot *and* an asshole *and* a pervert, but   
he can live with that so long as he also sounds like   
someone who can make Tim shake like that, moan around   
him like he's losing it just as much. 

They're stuck now, it feels like, just -- trapped in the place   
where it's just one open-wide and stupid position after   
another, one stupidly *vulnerable* position after another,   
and stroking Tim's so-straight-it's-queer haircut leaves his   
palms feeling too sensitive and wonderful, too. Stroking --   
petting him. Maybe doing his own cradling. 

He's not the one who was supposed to be here, maybe, but   
Dick's turned into someone too (wrong) different to *take*   
this, and 'supposed to' has never had much to do with this,   
anyway. 

He -- Tim's back is sweaty and hot, and Tim's mouth is   
everything *right* about them -- especially when it can't say   
a *word* -- and Tim's shaking a little more with every   
stroke, with every -- 

("Jason -- oh, Jay, I need you so much --") 

"I'm not -- I'm not him, either -- I -- shit, Tim, I just --" The   
sound he makes is *awful*, and totally justified by the fact   
that Tim's not sucking him, anymore. "Don't *stop*, man --" 

"I -- no, I --" Tim shakes his head like a dog, kneels up, and   
reaches for Jason, shoves his hands in Jason's hair again,   
and Jason has to grab his dick to keep it from starting its   
own little coup d'etat, but he can wrap his other arm   
around Tim just fine. 

Just -- kiss him. Kiss him, and maybe roll them both down   
to the bed, and keep kissing -- 

"Jay -- Jason, I think we're too fucked *up* for this," Tim   
says, and doesn't kiss Jason fast enough to keep *him*   
from -- 

"Look, don't -- don't make me have to understand what --   
what you're trying to *say*, here -- not --" 

"You already do -- you -- I know you do --" 

"Not now, not *here*," Jason says, and *makes* the next   
kiss into something that's at least sure of what it wants to   
be, even if Jason isn't. There are too many people here and   
not enough of them make any sense, but -- 

That's why they're *here*. "Has to -- it has to mean   
something, man --" 

"It *does* --" 

And that's -- that's another freaking *stream* of Kryptonian,   
and Jason's pretty sure piss-play would feel better -- 

"Oh -- fuck, I *think* in that language sometimes, now, and   
you -- you can't get Bruce out of your head, and Dick --" 

And the thing is, nothing cuts that off but Tim, but that   
doesn't mean they both aren't sitting here *waiting* for the   
man to come back, on cue, like somebody's nightmare of   
an efficient vigilante machine who's also, totally and   
completely, still *their* brother. 

Which -- 

"Look, you know I'm freaked, *too*, man. We don't -- we   
were just supposed to be playing because everything else is   
so goddamned serious --" 

"Then why did you *stop*?" And Tim looks about ten years   
older and infinity years younger, all of a sudden, face half-   
scrunched up and eyes back to being so wide that -- 

That -- that's a good question, really. "We can play other   
ways," he says, and he may actually be *quoting* Talia at   
this point, but that's -- actually his *other* point. 

"Jason --" 

"Look, just because *nothing's* free and easy anymore,   
just because it can't ever be just us --" 

"It never was," Tim says, and he's not moving like he's   
about to bolt -- or nerve-strike him and bolt -- but he   
remains a tricky motherfucker, and also it's a good excuse   
to grab Tim by the dick and squeeze. "*Jesus*, I --" 

"So this isn't either. Unless -- look, if you *want* us to go   
back to just messing with each other's heads and breaking   
shit, I'm not gonna say no, but we *both* know it's better   
this way." 

"I -- I only said it was *good*, not --" 

"Then say it's *better*," Jason says, and licks at the sweat   
behind one of Tim's ears. "C'mon, bitch, I'm getting old,   
here." And, somehow, he's pretty sure it would be wrong   
to just start jerking them *both* off before anything's   
resolved. 

"I…" 

At first, it still seems like random strange noise and the   
juddering shake of Tim in his arms, but he's quicker on the   
uptake, now, and he *gets* that it's laughter. 

He can go with laughter. 

"I never -- he doesn't make me think of anyone else." 

Fucking alien freak, *anyway*. "You think it's the same way   
with him? Free and easy?" 

"Heh, I…" Tim leans in -- nuzzles in -- and shoves his   
tongue hard at the beat of Jason's pulse. "I know for a fact   
that I remind him of any number of people you'd rather not   
think about, i.e., a list which doesn't include Bruce. He's on   
a *different* list --" 

"Yeah, fine, *fine*, just -- you know you make me think of   
all kinds of people, and I make you think of all kinds of   
people, but it doesn't have to be *bad*. It's not like   
skipping Thanksgiving dinner at the manor means we have   
to pretend we're not -- who we are." 

And Tim doesn't say anything to that, but it isn't really the   
good kind of quiet, and, if he's honest with himself, Jason   
doesn't really need an explanation as to *why* it isn't. Not   
before Tim looks up and into him, not while he's doing it,   
and not after he looks down again, and rests one hand on   
the one of Jason's that's still on Tim's dick just like they   
were at a table or holding hands or -- something. 

Because -- 

Because pretending -- *pretense* -- is what 'Flamebird's' all   
about. But -- 

"I'm tired of fucking Flamebird." 

"The alternative --" 

"Is *better*," Jason says, and it's actually not too much of a   
sacrifice to let go of his own dick for long enough to grab   
Tim by the jaw and hold on. One vulnerable position -- 

"You don't know that. You don't -- know *me*. And I   
don't -- I don't think I know you, either." 

\-- after another. "Yeah, how 'bout that? You know I'm the   
little brother Dick *didn't* always want, and Bruce's favorite   
nightmare fuck, and the one Kal-fucking-El *didn't* bag." 

"I -- I'm pretty sure Steph's not interested --" 

"And I know Dick can't figure out if you're his little brother   
or his secret weapon, and Bruce can't figure out how to   
make you need him, and Kal-fucking-El can't get off your   
jock with lube and a -- heh -- crowbar --" 

"Suddenly, those jokes are funny again. I -- Jason --" 

"And that *Steph* can't stop scrubbing her lips from every   
time you planted one on her. Good thing you never fucked   
her --" 

"Don't -- *don't* --" 

"And I know you're about as *over* all of that as I am about   
all *my* shit, that if you were Flamebird wouldn't even   
*exist* the way he does, and that everything else… well."   
Jason shrugs, more casual than he feels *or* looks -- he   
knows it. 

"What? Is this where you say something about 'making it   
up as we go along?' That's *not* what this is about --" 

"And now I know that this 'isn't what this is about.' For you.   
But near as I can see -- we're the only ones around making   
the rules." 

"I --" 

And there's more -- a *lot* more he can say. He's pretty   
much on a *roll* here -- never mind his angry and *forlorn*   
dick -- because Tim's kneeling there looking like there's   
nothing under him but a big-ass chasm full of questions.   
Even *with* Jason's had still being on *his* dick. Tim --   
shit. Jason kinda has to laugh. 

"What?" 

"Nothing. You just look like you're *here* for the first time   
since I came to play, Tim-I-mean-Flamebird." 

Tim closes his eyes, but it's only for a moment before he   
opens them again, and takes a deep, shaky breath. "You   
could've just said you wanted us to beat each other up   
less." 

"Uh, huh. And then I could've *waited* for you to analyze   
the statement to death, probably in ancient Kryptonian,   
and we would've gotten exactly nowhere. This way --   
we're already pretty much naked and in a bed. My way's   
better." 

"What, no 'say it, bitch?'" 

Jason grins. "Figured it was implied." 

"You -- I love the way you feel." 

Jason nods. "I like the sound when your mask is sliding   
against mine." 

"I --" 

"Let's keep fucking." 

"-- concur," Tim says, and the smile on his face makes the   
kiss harder, makes *him* harder, and he doesn't fucking   
care what that means, and if Talia *really* cared, herself,   
she would've *dismantled* the League of Assassins, as   
opposed to just making it worse. 

Fuck Bruce, anyway -- 

And that's exactly what he's doing when Tim wraps a hand   
around him again, just like how it's exactly what Tim's   
doing when he starts *rhythmically* stroking into Jason's   
mouth. 

"It's --" 

"Don't stop *kissing*, Jason --" 

"It's *better*," Jason says, and finally takes his own real   
damned thoughtful bite to Tim's mouth, "when you can   
just *admit* it. All of it --" 

"Hmm. Friends of Bruce W.," Tim says -- 

And Jason coughs the laugh into Tim's mouth -- 

"I thought we were *done* with the spitting, Jason --" 

"I hope so," Jason says, and it's hard to tell whether he's   
yanking Tim's head back down to his dick or if Tim's kinda   
diving for it, and that's -- 

That's so fucking *good*. Too good for it to *feel* good for   
a minute, because at first it's just relief, and then it's relief   
and his spine being on fire, and then he can't even feel   
himself except *for* his dick -- 

"Thank you thank you *thank* you if you stop I'm gonna   
*kill* you --" 

And Tim chokes around him, and Jason's betting that's a   
laugh. And -- yeah. Just that shiver and twitch, rolling up   
inside him from the head of his dick to everywhere that   
*counts* -- 

"I -- okay, maybe I'll do it quick -- oh, *shit*, this -- I --" 

This is Tim fucking his own face, and it's not new, but it   
feels like it *should* be, like -- he doesn't know. Maybe   
they should've *waited* or something, and the Talia in his   
head is laughing her ass off, and the Bruce in his head   
looks *confused* -- 

And the Tim in his head is being a smirking sonofabitch,   
which is more than enough reason to catch the bastard's   
rhythm and make it harder, better -- and when Tim reaches   
for his hands, he's all set to just hold on and *rock* -- 

But the fact that Tim wants Jason's hands on his head is   
nothing like a surprise. It would -- it would be a lot weirder   
if *everything* about the way Flamebird had sex was   
different from the ways Tim did -- 

"I'm not -- gonna have to Kryptonite your alien sugar   
daddy -- after all --" 

It's probably wrong to make Tim laugh around his dick on   
*purpose*, but it feels too good for actual -- as opposed to   
theoretical -- guilt. Especially because Tim's doing that thing   
where he pretends he doesn't need air -- all that practice at   
killing all the oxygen in a *room* -- and just swallowing   
around him, over and fucking *over* -- 

"Jesus -- I -- I bet you make your boyfriend set fire to shit   
by *accident* --" 

And the best thing about keeping Tim in this position --   
Tim's hands are on his own head, and Jason's hands are   
*holding* them there -- is that he can't actually point to   
any of the burn scars which may or may not be Superman's   
fault -- 

"I bet -- I bet you could thaw Dick right *out* -- God   
*fuck* --" 

Okay, he deserved those teeth, and he *deserved* them,   
but mostly Tim knows he loves it, he loves it, he -- 

"I bet you could make me fall for you," he says, and it   
comes all out in a gasp, just like something he *didn't'*   
mean to say out loud, but it makes Tim choke, pull back a   
little, groan, and go right back *down* -- 

Maybe it's better if Tim doesn't know it's not an accident,   
maybe it feels more *real* -- 

And maybe he can just close his eyes and *ride* this, one   
thrust after another after another, short and no better than   
what Tim's *doing* to him, what he always goddamned   
fucking *does* -- oh fucking -- 

Jesus -- 

One day, maybe, he's gonna figure out how to come silently   
on *purpose*, as opposed to getting shocked into it (sucked   
into it) because it's too good for him to stop *thinking*, as   
opposed to just groaning, urging -- 

And giving up, because Tim actually does need air,   
sometimes. 

And looking at his mouth just makes him want to do it again,   
and Tim knows him well *enough* that he's smirking even   
before Jason's dick gets up enough energy to twitch for   
him. Right. 

"So…" 

"Yes, Jason?" 

"Kiss me." 

And it's -- kind of a weird kiss for Tim, actually. It's soft,   
more like a breath or a touch than anything else, but it's   
not… sweet. 

Hunh. 

"Again…?" 

And the look on his face isn't *Flamebird*, but it's still got   
too many secrets behind it. "Yeah, again." 

Another, just like the first. Just like -- 

"Are you *kissing* me in Kryptonian?" 

Tim catches his tongue between his teeth, and doesn't   
*quite* blush, so -- he absolutely is, but. "You seemed --   
invested in just going with… everything we do and don't   
know about each other, so…" And Tim presses their palms   
together hard, and holds them there… 

And when Jason spreads Tim's fingers with his own -- 

"Yeah, I -- yes." 

Jesus, that's -- Tim's breathing harder, and his eyes are   
closed, and when Jason gives him one of those dry little   
kisses *back* -- 

"Fuck, yes --" 

"You've gotta be kidding me --" 

"Think of it like -- a formalized tease." 

"Okay, I -- but --" Jason shakes his head and goes in for   
another kiss, and another, and *squeezes* Tim's hands -- 

"I can feel -- how much more you want. And you can --" 

"I get it. I think -- do you manage this *before* you get off   
a couple of times between you?" 

"Not -- well. Jason, I --" This kiss *lasts* longer, but it's still   
dry, still soft and -- 

Even further from being sweet. It's dark and actually kind   
of -- there's only so much of this he can take without   
wanting -- *wanting*. "Can I -- what about your neck?" 

"I should -- I shouldn't be naked, but -- yes." 

And he goes for it, just -- presses with his lips, dry as he   
can, and stays there. And -- breathes, through his nose, and   
his dick wants him to know that it *can* report for duty, but   
Jason's gonna pay for it -- "Tim --" 

"Jason, I -- you could tell me. Show me -- Talia --" 

"You were already -- ah. That thing -- with my balls --" 

And *that's* a real enough, deep enough blush that Jason   
can *feel* it, even though his eyes are closed. 

"Also -- if you put on lingerie I think I'd have to kill myself." 

"N-noted, just -- please -- I need -- I have --" 

Jason kisses his neck again, quick, and moves back to his   
mouth and just -- holds them there. It's not really a kiss at   
all, like this, but it feels -- when Tim opens his eyes it   
feels -- he pulls back. "You can't really -- not in English,   
right?" 

Tim shakes his head. "But I can -- you should touch me.   
Please." 

"Where?" 

Tim drags Jason's hands down to his thighs, and between,   
and holds them there. His balls feel tight, hard under soft,   
and he's already erect enough that Jason would have to   
move their hands to touch his *dick*. 

"I -- Jesus, this is --" 

"Interestingly, this touch -- is more appropriate than the one   
to my neck, or -- if you wanted -- like this, my hips and back   
are out of bounds, to some extent. But not -- here," Tim   
says, and drags their hands back and forth, teasing his own   
inner thighs -- 

"I love the way you smell when you sweat for me --" 

"Love -- how it feels -- God, I --" Tim licks his lips, fast.   
"You could probably make me come --" 

"And get incinerated by your boyfriend for poaching?" Tim's   
thighs are getting slick enough with sweat -- is this what he   
means about showing him Talia? "This -- *am* I poaching,   
touching you like -- I don't wanna stop. You --" 

"Certainly, I -- Kal-El and I will have to -- have to talk -- your   
calluses. You --" 

"What about 'em?" Other than how he's now actively   
working to hit every spot he can *think* of with them. 

"Please. I -- oh fuck I *beg* --" 

And it's English, but it doesn't *feel* like it in Jason's head.   
It doesn't feel like anything except *more*. "Can I -- do I   
suck you?" 

The head-shake is fucking *violent*, and wonderful enough   
that Tim's sweat is stinging the bite he'd left on Jason's   
lip -- 

"Then what? You -- you really need to tell me --" 

"Touch -- my dick, just -- and -- don't kiss me yet --" 

As far as Jason's concerned, jerking Tim off and staring at   
his wide eyes, his wider mouth -- so fucking wet and   
open -- yeah. Not off his jock with lube, a crowbar, and   
actual flames licking at that big alien dick. 

He *gets* it, and then just wants fucking *more* of it when   
Tim works his hands free of Jason's own and lets them fall   
at his *sides*. Like -- 

"This is just -- just what I do to you?" 

"It -- it's not mandatory like this -- I mean -- it's --   
preferred --" 

And he thinks he maybe understands a *third* of it, but it's   
enough. He's not using his mouth, he's *only* touching   
Tim's dick, and he can do it however he wants. Pinching at   
the head makes Tim *look* like he's screaming, even   
though the only sound is escaping air. 

Stroking light enough to tickle makes Tim *sweat* more,   
makes the room feel hotter and closer and more --   
dangerous, somehow. 

"You -- do you get to tell me what you want?" 

Tim shakes his head, stops, nods -- 

"Not -- exactly?" 

"Yes, I -- Jason, oh Jason I shouldn't even be begging, but   
I --" 

"Then don't," and he thinks he's making it sound easier than   
it feels, he thinks -- 

Jason's not even hard again, yet, not really, but it feels like   
something thin and hot and razor-sharp is pulling tight in   
his belly, like if he stops or breathes too hard he'll be able   
to look down and see himself falling right to bloody little   
*pieces* for this, *just* this. 

Tim's mouth shut tight and his eyes wide -- 

Tim biting his lip and clawing at the sheets with shaking   
fingers -- 

Jason's using everything he knows to *keep* from working   
Tim the right ways, the fast ways, and it *hurts* to do it,   
and he knows Tim knows that, and he knows -- 

It's not like he didn't get 'ritual' before, but not -- not like   
this. It's like fucking a priest, or getting fucked *by* a   
religion. It's -- he kind of wants to incinerate himself *for*   
Superman, but he kind of already *is*. 

And Tim's not putting anything out by coming all over his   
fingers, and -- 

Jason tries to make this kiss *fit*, but he can't, and Tim   
clutches him *hard* when Jason slips his tongue in, and   
then it's just necessary to slam them back down to the   
mattress and really do it. 

Wash them clean, put it out, make it real -- something.   
Just -- wait. 

"Jesus fucking -- did we just *role-play*?" 

"I --" Tim's laugh is breath and feeling, and something that   
makes Jason need to pull him closer -- 

*Have* him. "Seriously, Jesus I --" 

"You're right. We were supposed to -- stop. Weren't we?" 

And -- point, but also -- *point*. Jason head-butts Tim   
lightly and blows out a breath. It doesn't -- 

It's not that it doesn't matter, but it *is* that it's different.   
It was different. It -- if they can stay like this, just holding   
and holding *at* each other, it'll be another kind of ritual.   
Another little piece of magic, even though there's no   
Batman here, at all. 

"Should I have -- not done that?" 

Jason bites Tim's cheek. "Encouraged me, you mean? I   
don't --" 

"Kal's started doing that, you know. That particular kind of   
bite." 

It isn't *quite* ice-water to the crotch. "Yeah, well, he's a   
genius, *too*," Jason says, and pushes until Tim's lying on   
his side and facing away from him. "Spooning." 

"Ja wohl." 

"And also -- eat me. Later." 

"Noted," Tim says, and lies there in a way that manages to   
feel obedient *and* real, like maybe the two things -- 

No, the two things were *always* different, and that's   
why -- part of why -- Bruce isn't here and they aren't   
*there*. 

"It's okay that you're thinking of Bruce, right now." 

"Better be," Jason says, and doesn't stop himself from   
hunting down the burn scars. Eventually, Tim will look   
like -- "Do you -- did you seriously cut your hair that   
way to make it look like you'd burned it off at some   
point?" 

"Hmm. Call it a happy accident -- it seemed dangerous   
to keep it longer. The final effect was a... surprise." 

"You..." 

Tim rolls on his back and turns his head on the pillow.   
"Still think I'm faking it?" 

Only when he pretends none of it matters. Only when   
the accidents aren't happy *or* unhappy. "Asshole,"   
Jason says. 

Tim's smile manages to be both smug and soft at the   
same time. "It's still okay that you're thinking about   
Bruce." 

Right. "Fuck off to sleep, why don't you? You've got   
late watch again," Jason says, and pushes Tim back   
over onto his side. 

"Mm. Dawn over Bludhaven. So... flammable." 

Jason jabs him -- lightly -- over the old kidney   
bruises. 

Tim sighs. 

Like this, in the flickering neon... he looks less   
naked than ever. 

Jason can get used to that, maybe.


End file.
